


Say It, Spit it Out (What Is It Exactly?)

by callmejude



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode AU: s08e03 The Long Night, Explicit Consent, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Roleplay, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21558031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: With the Night King dead, Jon hides away within the walls of Winterfell to collect himself, and finds Theon doing the same. The two take solace in each other, and invite a ghost into their bed.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 99





	Say It, Spit it Out (What Is It Exactly?)

Winterfell is throbbing with bodies. It reminds Jon, strangely, of The Wall. No privacy, it seems. No silence. Just people, standing close together, waiting for something to go wrong. Jon had hoped destroying the Night King would ease the strain, but it has done nothing but replace it with a new kind. Confused, unsure.

Jon simply cannot stand the tension pouring off of everyone. He ducks down the hall toward the bedroom chambers, wandering past his father’s room. He means to reach the chambers that had been afforded to him as the bastard of Winterfell, but as he passes Robb’s door, he notices it cracked open.

Curious, Jon pushes the door open fully. At first the room seems empty until Jon notices a swell beneath Robb’s furs. Squinting, Jon notices the swell rise and sink with breath.

Rage burns under Jon’s skin, and he clears the distance between the door and his brother’s bed, throwing the wolfskins aside. He is not sure what he is expecting, but it is not the sight of Theon in his tunic and breeches curled on the mattress, horror painted on his face as he takes in Jon standing over him.

“I’m sorry,” Theon says quickly, breathless, holding his hands over his face. He is still wearing his gloves. “Gods, I’m sorry, please don’t —”

Jon’s anger evaporates. He must remember, Theon is different, now. Not the boy who called him names and made a fool of him at every chance. Not the man who betrayed his family and captured his home. Theon is now the man who defended his younger brother — saved all of Westeros with everything he had. 

Jon does not know what to say, to this Theon. With a sigh, he drops his hand to his side. 

No longer furious, his voice only holds curiosity when Jon asks, “What are you doing here?”

Tears are in Theon’s eyes as he scrambles to his feet. The panic is gone from his eyes now, but he still looks pale, shaken. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. I was trying to — trying to sleep, but I… I shouldn't be here. I’ll leave.”

Swallowing, Theon starts toward the door, but Jon takes hold of his wrist. Theon goes tense under his grip, but doesn’t pull away. Not as frightened as he’d been when they met on Dragonstone. 

“You don’t have to leave,” Jon tells him awkwardly. He does not know how to behave toward this man. “I hadn’t — meant to disturb you. I thought…” Jon doesn’t know what he thought. “What’re… what’re you doing in here?”

“I —” Theon’s voice catches. “I couldn’t sleep, in… it’s hard to sleep here. Now.”

Guilt punches in Jon’s gut. He knows only what Sansa has told him, but it is enough. “Your room as a ward is — no one’s taken it, from what I know. You could take it for yourself.”

Theon’s gaze falls away. “I cannot stand to sleep there, not after…” He clears his throat again. “Every room in Winterfell is a bitter memory now, it seems.”

And truly, Jon understands that more than Theon can know. “Except for my…” hesitating, Jon rephrases, “except for Robb’s.”

Shuddering, Theon nods. Jon does not press it further. He will not make Theon say it. He knows that in the long summer, as boys, Theon and Robb had grown fond of one another, found pleasure in each other, like young boys often do. He’d seen them once, kissing in a darkened corridor while the rest of the family dined in the hall. They had not noticed him. He remembers being more disappointed in their youthful brazenness than surprised by their actions, even as young and green as he was at the time.

And now, Robb’s ghost hangs over the darkened room. Thousands of dead lay slumped and slowly freezing on the moors beyond the castle walls, but they mean nothing in here. In here, there is only them, these two dead men who are no longer dead, and their brother, who is.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Theon whispers into that silence, sitting back onto Robb’s furs. “After what I did to him, I shouldn’t — I shouldn’t be in here.”

It’s still strange for Jon to hear his given name from Theon’s mouth. “Aye,” he says, “enough of that. You’ve done more than enough to make it right. More than I ever thought.”

“I’ve not.” Theon’s voice is hoarse. “I’ve not made anything right.”

“Theon, you are the hero of Winterfell. You defended Bran to the last, stood against the King of Night himself. You saved every one of us.”

Shaking his head, Theon swallows against a lump in his throat. “Arya.”

At times, Jon wants to shake him. Like he had on Dragonstone. Sansa is alive because of Theon. Bran is alive because of Theon. He had defended the godswood against the army of the dead — nearly on his own. How could anyone ask more of him? Jon has spent so much of his life resenting Theon, then hating Theon, wishing him pain, wishing him death, but he has given everything to the Stark family that he can. There is no catharsis, to see Theon still in misery now. 

With a sigh, Jon takes a seat next to him among Robb’s furs, ignoring when Theon’s whole body pulls tense at the closeness.

When Theon doesn’t say anything more, Jon nods, feeling a lump form in his own throat. 

“You expected to die tonight.”

Theon tucks his knees under his chin. “Of course I did. We all did.”

“Aye, and many succeeded. But you were not so lucky,” Jon says, trying to smile. It is a dark joke, but a faint smile twitches at Theon’s lips, too. “It seems you must live to see another day and do right by us.”

For a moment, they sit in silence. Finally, Theon says, “Your sisters both seem to be in the habit of keeping me alive despite myself.”

It is not funny. But the both of them have a dark sort of humour now. "They do,” replies Jon, “myself as well. Though, I suppose I am grateful for it. Considering where I have been.”

Without really knowing why, Jon is desperate for Theon to give him some form of acknowledgement. He waits for a nod, a soft word, but there is only silence. After a moment, Theon lifts his gloved hand and flexes his fingers. The last two remain still, not bending into a fist with the rest, and Jon looks away. There are fingers missing from Theon’s hands, Jon knows, toes missing from his feet. And he knows worse. He stares at his own hands. His gloves are filthy, dried blood cracked over the leather, and he slips them off.

Theon watches him, but makes no move to remove his own. For a moment, Jon stares as his gloves, and then clears his throat. “Come on, Greyjoy, no need for shyness. It’s plenty warm.”

Scoffing, Theon flexes his fingers again. “Is it? I do believe your family’s words say otherwise.”

A chill burns in the pit of Jon’s stomach at mention of _family_. He moves to shake the darkness from his thoughts, but Theon has seen it in him, and ducks his head, ashamed. 

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Theon. “I’ve no right to talk of your family as if —”

“No, it’s alright. It's fine,” Jon interrupts pointedly. Enough, he cannot bear to have Theon grovel to him. Of course he would misinterpret such a thing. Theon has no idea. Jon wishes he could be back on Dragonstone, and be gentler with Theon from the start. 

They cannot go back to Dragonstone, but he can be gentle with Theon now. They both deserve as much.

Finally, Jon adds, “You have just as much a right as I have. They were just — just as much your family.”

Mercifully, Theon does not argue it. 

Instead he is silent, but Jon can feel his eyes on him, sharp and attentive as they’ve always been, understanding more than Jon ever wants to reveal. The quiet stretches as Theon finally tugs his own gloves from his mangled hands, setting them down atop his filthy armor left in a pile beside Robb’s bed.

They sit in silence for a while longer, both staring at the darkened chambers of the dead heir of Winterfell. Jon never thought Theon Greyjoy could ever be so quiet. Distantly, the noise of the crowds thrums and beats through the castle walls. It sounds a world away, as if they were hearing it from the bottom of the sea. 

Beside him, after a time, Theon lets out a loud sigh, tinged with tears.

“I miss him.”

Jon nods. “Myself as well.”

It’s a shock when Theon surges at him, flinging his arms tight around Jon’s neck. Jon’s whole body flinches tight in surprise. Hours ago, he had stood face to face with a wight dragon, but Greyjoy can still make him nervous. Reactively, Jon locks an arm over Theon’s back. It calms the crawling sensation under Jon’s skin. Closeness soothing the wound left in his heart. When Jon returns the embrace, Theon breaks, and he gasps against Jon’s neck, gripping frantic at his hair. Fingers grip too tight to compensate for the ones missing from his left hand. Jon winces at the pain, but doesn’t pull away. A sob shivers Theon’s body in his arms, shaking so hard Jon is sure he can hear bones rattling. He wraps his arms tightly around Theon’s slim back as if holding him together. 

Theon inhales against Jon’s neck. “Can you forgive me? For that? Even for that? You said… you told me, whatever you can forgive, you do. Even that? I’d give anything to have him back. If it could be done — If I could — do anything…”

Silently, Jon strokes Theon’s back. Lets Theon calm himself. Truly it’s strange, holding Theon Greyjoy to his chest like a crying child. Thinking now, it must be years since the two of them have touched at all, and then it was only the squabbling and roughhousing of children.

“I do forgive you. I said as much, you remember? You do not need to beg my mercy for the rest of your days.” Jon waits for Theon to nod before he adds gently, “It was not you who killed him, Theon.”

And perhaps Theon has never let himself hear that before now. Perhaps no one has ever said it to him. But Theon takes Jon’s face in his hands and pulls back to look at him, eyes wide as he takes a shuddering breath. He looks pale, still shivering, and Jon feels oddly pinned by his stare.

The kiss is abrupt and overwhelming; like drowning. Jon tastes salt against a clash of teeth, and jerks away. “Theon —”

“No, please,” Theon whispers, shivering in Jon’s arms, “please, just — I just want...”

It’s mad, Jon knows it is, but Theon’s hands are trembling as they pull against Jon’s leather doublet, dried blood crumbling against his grip. His eyes are wide and pleading, and the air between them crackles with something desperate. Somehow Jon is exhausted and alive all at once, and the need in Theon’s eyes turns him soft. He nods, letting Theon drag him down overtop him until Jon’s elbows land on Robb’s furs.

“Alright,” Jon says shakily.

Theon’s knuckles are white against Jon’s doublet, and tenderly, Jon covers his fists with his own hand. “Let me — let me take this off.”

Releasing his grip, Theon allows him, and Jon pulls at his buckles and ties, shucking his filthy clothes onto the floor beside Theon’s own. 

“You’re alright?”

Strangely, Theon scoffs at that. He doesn’t answer, instead pulling his tunic over his head. Jon has not seen his bare chest since they were boys in Winterfell, and swallows against the sight of dark scars and puckered flesh that stand out wine-red on pale skin. When Jon reaches out to touch a long red line at Theon’s collarbone, Theon stops him.

“I don’t —” he swallows, unsure. “I don’t want to have them, now. Just for now. Please?” 

Frowning, Jon nods. It’s hard to look away from the gnarled flesh, but he forces himself to pull his gaze back to Theon’s face. With a steadying sigh, Jon drops his hand into Robb’s furs and bows to kiss Theon again. Theon responds hungrily, surging up against Jon’s chest, and takes fistfuls of Jon’s hair in his hands, holding him still. Jon allows him the control, swept into the kiss as Theon wraps his legs around Jon’s waist.

Jon is not a fool. He knows it is not him that Theon wants, not now. And really, Jon does not want him, either. But it is Jon that Theon needs, and Jon is more than willing. Anything to stave off the cold and death of the long night still heavy over the castle. Anything to smother the sickening realization of the last time he laid with another. Anything, Jon thinks, to not drown in his own despair of the wars to come.

He ducks his head as he pushes into Theon, eyes screwed shut, hastily slickened with spit and lantern oil. But the feeling engulfs him, eager, needy heat that swallows him whole. Blunt and bitten nails claw at his shoulders. 

How quickly sorrow and death are banished from Jon’s mind. Instead there is only the physical drive, the heat, the urgant chase. There is no thought of tomorrow, of the castle beyond. There is nothing beyond the warm body in this bed.

It’s solid, and safe, and Jon releases a heavy breath against Theon’s chest.

“Thank you,” Theon whispers beneath him. It’s a strange thing to say, and Jon can feel him shivering as if cold. Trying to keep him warm, Jon presses close, rests his forehead against Theon’s shoulder. Over and over, Theon repeats, “Thank you, oh gods, thank you —”

The dim orange glow of the lantern obscures the scars Theon’s skin. He forgets where they are on his skin, and Jon reaches up to stroke Theon’s throat. Though Jon tries to force his gaze, Theon’s eyelids have fallen shut. It’s beautiful, somehow, and Jon presses a kiss to Theon’s jaw.

There’s a soft gasp against his temple, and a breath like a word huffs against Jon’s ear. Even as Jon’s body responds to the sound, rolling his hips hard, he cannot quite recognize it until Theon dares to say it again:

“_Robb…_”

At once, time seems to stall and quicken and blur. A whine in Jon’s chest, a sharp breath against his teeth, and he jerks his head. Theon looks back at him, but his eyes are clouded, distant. For a moment, between them, everything is still.

“Robb,” Theon chokes again, tears streaming down his face. His eyes seem to focus for an instant, and shame swallows his expression before he looks away, buries his face in the furs. Keeping his eyes clenched shut, he breathes, “Oh, Robb, please — I… I’m so sorry —”

Jon reaches out to touch his face, but Theon flinches, swallowing against a sob.

“Shh,” Jon murmurs, worried for a moment that speaking may break the spell, but Theon only lets out a low gasp, eyes still shut tight. Jon keeps his voice low, hoping that whispering will not give him away. “It’s alright. It’s all alright.”

Pressing a kiss to Theon’s throat, Jon reaches for his hand balled in Robb’s furs and prys it open, lacing their fingers together. Where Theon’s fingers are missing, his own hand closes on nothing. “You have apologized enough, Theon. You needn’t plead to me.”

It’s the _’to me’_ that Theon needs to hear, evidently, releasing a heavy breath and squeezing Jon’s fingers. He still won’t look at him, but Jon does not mind. He clings tight to Theon’s hand and curls over him, tight and close. 

Jon begins to move with a gentle roll of his hips.

It is sick, to take his own brother’s place, to take his lover, to _like_ it. But no, Jon remembers, Robb is not his brother. Jon had only one brother, and only one sister, both murdered before he was ever born. Murdered so that he might live.

But just now, for Theon, for himself, he can be this instead. Finding his courage, he purrs in Theon’s ear, “It’s alright, Theon. It’s alright.”

Panting, Theon turns blindly to kiss him, dropping his hand to cup the back of Jon’s head, mouth greedy and wet with tears.

“Robb,” he moans as he breaks away, “oh, _Robb._” 

Shame and arousal entangle together in a thrill down Jon’s spine. A feeling he has grown used to. The pace stays slow and even. Jon’s never been so gentle with a lover, he thinks. Theon keens, murmuring against Jon’s mouth as he drags Jon closer, still peppering Jon’s face with kisses between words. Fingers rough and cold brush down Jon’s neck, cupping his cheek. He’s trembling so hard that Jon reaches up to fold his hand around Theon’s shivering palm. It feels as if he’ll shatter apart underneath Jon’s body. 

Softly, Theon’s voice croaks, “Robb, I — harder. Harder, please —”

The request startles Jon, after everything he knows. Swallowing, Jon hesitates, until he can hear Theon’s shuddering gasp, “Plea — please... “

And Jon doesn’t want to speak, afraid of crumbling this fragile artifice between them. Still, to deny now would be cruel, Jon knows. He presses a kiss to Theon’s cheek and asks, “You’re sure?”

With a breathless huff that could almost be a laugh, Theon whines, “Gods, yes, Stark —”

And at that, Jon is lost. He shoves down on Theon’s shoulders, holding him still as he thrusts into him as hard as he can. It may be too much, but they are both too gone to stop, to know better, Theon throwing his head back, bearing his throat like fawning prey, and Jon growls, “Again.”

“Yes — _yes,_ Stark, more —”

A naked sob rips from Jon’s throat, and his hips snap into Theon hard enough that Robb’s bed rocks against the stone wall. Head is thrown back, mouth gaping open, Theon responds in kind, leavering his hips and thighs into Jon’s thrusts. Jon snatches a handful of Theon’s hair to hold his head steady, hips beginning to lose rhythm. 

“Say — say it again,” Jon rasps, too close to second-guess speaking, any longer.

“Please, Stark, please don’t stop. I… gods, yes Stark, please —”

“Yes —” Jon gasps, maddening fog clouding his thoughts. “Yes, beg me.”

Theon groans, hips thrusting back over Jon’s cock. His words slur together as he starts to keen against Jon’s thrusts. “Please — _please_ fuck me, please… Stark, I — want...”

His voice cuts off, breathless, and Jon pins Theon’s wrist against Robb’s furs and rambles to fill the silence.

“That’s it. That’s — that’s it, Theon. Tell me what — what you want, Theon. Beg me for it. Gods, you feel so — good.” 

A gush of air leaves Theon’s lungs, trembling past his lips. He strains against Jon’s grip, but is held fast. “Tell me — tell me, please. That you want me. Please Robb, you want — you still want me…”

“_Gods —_” 

Jon hoists Theon upward into his lap, throwing his arms around his back and sinking him down further on his cock. Theon keens, wrapping his arms around Jon’s neck and burying his face into Jon’s throat. Tears are hot and slick against his skin as Theon lets out a helpless, shocked moan.

“Shh, Theon, gods, it’s alright. I want you. I do.” Wildly, he adds, “I — I always will.”

The sound Theon makes is animalistic, desperate, and he takes hold of Jon’s face and pulls Jon’s mouth to his own, pouring everything he is into the kiss. Jon tastes salt against his tongue, hair and scalp pulling tight under Theon’s uneven grip. Theon rocks against him so hard that Jon sees stars, and his spine goes rigid and Theon’s breath fans out over Jon’s mouth as they break apart. Jon whines, fucking into Theon too hard to keep his rhythym, but Theon doesn’t seem to mind, falling slack in Jon’s arms and mouthing helpless at his throat.

“Robb —”

Before Theon can finish, Jon’s release leaves him in a punch, and he throws Theon back against the furs. Pumping once, twice, and then Jon is lost. Comfort and blackness is all there is. And a warm, yielding body beneath him. Theon whimpers, murmuring soft little noises into Robb’s furs as Jon’s body starts to slow, falling heavy until he drops onto his elbows over Theon.

The moment he is close enough, Theon reaches for him, kissing and clawing at him in a sated haze, and Jon feels tears in his own eyes as he catches his breath. The two of them don’t speak, as the quiet returns to the room. Enough has been said, it seems.

As their breathing slows, Jon climbs off of him. Theon gasps and reaches for him, and Jon takes hold of his hand, staying close to him. Theon tucks into Jon’s side, and Jon feels his shivering calm until he finally stills, warm enough.

It’s deafeningly quiet, in Robb’s room.

The fire has long since died by now, the soft glow of embers barely enough to light the expression on Theon’s face. He seems distant, abruptly shy, and Jon watches him struggle to swallow.

“Did you love him?” Jon asks abruptly.

Theon only stares.

“I’d seen you together,” mumbles Jon by way of explanation, “You and Robb, in the long summer. It’s no surprise. But you always had so many, back then. Did — did you love him, when we were all just boys?”

Theon’s gaze falls away, but he nods. “I did.”

Jon mirrors his nod, mouth a tight line. “And did you love him still, when you betrayed him?”

Flinching, Theon nods again. “Aye, I did,” he answers in a strangled voice, tears tracking new down his face. “I loved him then, too. I died loving him.”

Jon squints. “What?”

Theon shakes his head. He doesn’t explain. “He was the only one. Everyone I’d had before or since, none… none of them were —” With a shaking breath, Theon steadies himself, sets his jaw. He’s still not looking Jon in the eye. “It was fair to take it from me. I haven't the right to yearn for him still. Not after all I’ve done.”

His voice is tight, and Jon casts his eyes to the floor, listening to Theon struggle against his sobs. They’d talked of this, before they parted ways on Dragonstone. About what Jon had seen beyond the Wall, about all the wars still to come, about what awaited them, in death. Theon had wept when Jon told him that there was nothing on the other side, but when he’d gathered the will to speak again, he’d only confessed that it did not surprise him.

_“I knew. I've always known. Known that — that I would not ever see him again.”_

The memory stings, and Jon swallows against a lump in his throat. He looks up to see Theon curled against himself in Robb’s furs, and clears his throat. Theon does not react; does not hear him. Jon reaches for him, fingers light on his shoulder.

“No one is waiting for any of us, Theon. Not him, not anyone else," Jon says finally, “it is no fault of yours that he is gone to you forever. He is gone to each of us forever. It's just… it's just what death is.”

Jon is unsure at first, if it’s the right thing to say, but Theon lets out a soft hiccuping scoff, and wipes his tears. 

“It doesn’t matter why,” Theon says at last. He doesn’t look at Jon again. “Only that I won’t.”

Jon nods. The air feels brittle, somehow, as if he’s holding his breath, waiting to let go. Jon does not want to interrupt him. 

Theon drags his wrist over his eyes before he adds, “He died hating me. I can — I can never ask his forgiveness. Or Lady Catelyn’s. They died knowing me for the traitor and child-killer that I — that I was.”

Again, Jon nods mutely. “I meant what…” he hesitates, unsure of the phrasing before he finally admits, “what I said, Theon. You’ve apologized enough, for what you’ve done. You have been forgiven.”

“But you can’t forgive this,” Theon whispers, tears welling new in his eyes again. “Not you, nor Sansa, nor Bran. You can’t forgive what — what I did to…”

“No,” Jon says gently when he realizes Theon can’t bear to finish the sentence. “But the dead cannot forgive, either. We must live anyway.”

Thankfully resolute, Theon nods, and again they fall into a peaceful silence.

“Will — will you stay with me?” Theon’s voice is so soft that Jon almost doesn’t hear him. He wonders for a moment if Theon truly means to ask it of him. He hesitates to answer, and Theon clears his throat, and says louder, “I — I know that you… with the dragon queen. I just —”

“I am not with the dragon queen,” Jon interrupts, feeling cold. He does not want to think about it. Theon seems somewhat struck by his insistence but does not question him. Jon does not elaborate. “I will stay with you, if you wish for company.”

Then, Theon smiles at him, wide and honest. Jon can’t recall a single time that Theon has ever smiled at him before, never kindly, at least. It disarms him, and distantly, Jon understands how he used to charm half the castle when they were younger. Theon doesn’t say anything else, but the silence unsettles Jon. 

Dumbstruck, he only repeats, “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” Theon says now, leaning forward to press a quick kiss on Jon’s lips.

It’s different than it had been, just a moment ago. Sweet and subdued. It’s only Jon he’s kissing, now. It’s a strange feeling, but not unwelcome. In bed, Theon curls against his chest, tucking his head against Jon’s shoulder, and they do not share another word before Jon hears Theon’s breathing even into a quiet snore.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Bury a Friend" from Billie Eilish because I am not subtle


End file.
